


Puppetry

by CloudDreamer



Series: Theater of Tragicomedy [5]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, The Homestuck Epilogues: Meat, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 00:40:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19240342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudDreamer/pseuds/CloudDreamer
Summary: Thirteen years of life aren’t shaken easily.





	Puppetry

Trauma isn’t always loud.

It’s dozens of small moments, stitched together with the shaking hand of a small child. It’s staring at the screen and realizing you haven’t understood it for fifteen minutes. It’s needing to have something on, some words in the background that you aren’t even listening to. 

It’s asking Karkat to repeat himself too many times, and it’s expecting him to say, never mind and scowl, but he never does. He’ll say it again, elaborate, as many times as you need.

It’s moving too quickly when it’s too quiet. It’s having your sword in your hand when you don’t remember reaching for it.

It’s soft sounds when you’re surprised, sucking in your breath instead of screaming. It’s not watching scary movies, only romcoms, because you see him in all of them.

It’s a whisper in your skull that reverberates, like an echo chamber. It’s never wearing hats. It’s avoiding responding to Dirk’s messages until too late. It’s automatically calculating circuitous routes to avoid something that isn’t there.

It’s waking up in a cold sweat from a dream you can’t remember— one you don’t think you want to remember.

It’s holding tight to Karkat’s hand, tight enough to cut off circulation. 

It’s feeling tears behind your eyes when you aren’t doing anything special.

It’s turning the volume up, up, up, because you can’t stand the silence.

It’s having an alien explain what _your_ kitchen appliances do.

It’s staring at your hands and expecting there to be blood.

It’s never going on the roof. 

It’s knowing, in intimidate detail, what he’d say, what he’d do. 

It’s running through things you said, things you did, wondering what you could’ve done differently until you’re scratching your skin bloody. 

It’s red and orange. 

It’s him in your head. 

You breathe in and out, uneven, and you lean your head into Karkat’s chest. He talks, and he talks. You don’t listen to the words, just the sound. 

His heartbeat is different than yours, faster by a few beats, and his touch is warm. His eyes fill in with the same red as yours as he ages, and his horns are sharpened to a polished point. His skin is thick, hard to pierce by accident, and when he holds you, you feel a strength in his grip that’s never tight enough to bruise. 

Karkat is reckless, indiscriminate. 

He is everything you need.


End file.
